


be a lie, if i told you that i never thought of death

by questionsthemselves



Series: steer your way through the ruins [7]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Angst, Background Character Death, Gen, Minor Character(s), Not A Fix-it Yet, POV Minor Character, Post-Exile, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: It’s coming. Whether he sleeps or stares dry-eyed out the viewscreen, it’s coming.So Krugarr waits, curled around himself in the dark of the engine room, for the psychic echo of Yondu’s dying scream. The stippled wall rubs his scales wrong whenever he shifts, but the warmth soaking through is a small comfort.Except, it never does.If Yondu had died, Krugarr would have heard it, so when Martinex’s message pings his wristcomm he already knows.Or five times Krugarr encountered death and one he didn't





	be a lie, if i told you that i never thought of death

**Author's Note:**

> So in the comics, from what I can gather Krugarr has the ability to hear the psychic screams of the dying, and originally works with a group called the Mourners who follow death screams and very literally do just that. 
> 
> Also Krugarr doesn't have a mouth, and instead of giving him an surprise chest mouth or a expanding belly button with teefs I have decided he photosynthesizes and eats energy. You're welcome
> 
> Since there's very, very little out there about Krugarr, many liberties were taken. Hope y'all enjoy anyways!

It’s coming. Whether he sleeps or stares dry-eyed out the viewscreen, it’s coming. 

So Krugarr waits, curled around himself in the dark of the engine room, for the psychic echo of Yondu’s dying scream. The stippled wall rubs his scales wrong whenever he shifts, but the warmth soaking through is a small comfort. 

A comfort Yondu won’t have. There is only one punishment for codebreakers, and only one consequence for a captain that betrays his crew. 

It’s a small hope, that when he deals Yondu’s death, the first mate will be merciful.

 

———————————————————————————————————

 

I.

“Is this what you want?” 

The man leans closer, brow crumpled and the conductors on his shoulders softly smoldering. His hand reaches up, as if to squeeze Krugarr’s shoulder, but he stops when Krugarr stiffens. 

“You want to follow death, watch the slaughter so you can grieve over people you’ve never met?” 

This is his duty. This is his gift. With every gift comes a burden. Krugarr twists his hands, pulls them apart to let ¯\\_(- -)_/glow between them. 

It’s all he knows, after all, being with the Mourners. Listening for the last psychic shrieks of the dying, sending word to back to the ship, traveling on from tragedy to tragedy. Alone.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” the man tilts his head, shifts from foot to foot. “I saw you, y’know. Slipping the survivors unit chips, tickets to safer planets.” 

Krugarr blinks. No one’s ever noticed that. He’s quite good at it, after all, and who ever thinks to watch his tail?

“There’s another option, ’s all I’m saying.” 

Krugarr narrows his eyes, bends down and with a twist of his wrist a question mark floats between them. 

“You could come with us. Be a Ravager.”

Strange name. Krugarr blinks, lazily twists a single hand so that that a wispy miniaturized leather-coat man can stomp about, waving his hands and smashing a block city to smithereens with tiny bolts of light.

The man sputters, “What– no– that’s _not_ what Ravagers–“

“Hey, flyboy.”

Krugarr twists around to look for this new voice, then looks lower until he meets the dark, snapping eyes of a tiny Arcturan. She’s all manic bristle and menace, and the same glowing conductors as the man.

“Let me try,” she marches right up to Krugarr unafraid, folds her arms. “Hey you. You’re a Lem.

Well. Seems this one is well traveled. He inclines his head in acknowledgement. 

“You’re got that mind mojo. Pull it from his head, what the Ravagers are.” 

Stakar sputters, shoulders hiking up but the woman scrunches up her face at him. 

“It won’t hurt, you big baby. And he’s not gonna see anything he’s not looking for,” her hand shoots out to punch Stakar in the bicep. “Honestly. Like I’d let him do something that would scramble your brains when they’re already fried enough.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible and vaguely grumpy under his breath, but his shoulders relax, and he doesn’t protest.

Fine then. If they wish. Krugarr closes his eyes, lets his shields drop, and reaches. 

Flames, glowing, seared onto leather, stamped sizzling into metal. Endless stars dripping, sparkling, hard like jewels scooped and tumbling cool through fingers. Souls connected with fire and oath, lines branching and bonding them like atoms into a fleet. A family. 

Krugarr has been alone for so long.

He opens his eyes. Concentrates. 

_Yes_ he sends. 

_I will join you_.

 

II.

“Here, look, you want it? Bet you haven’t eaten in a while, huh?” 

Stakar waggles some unidentifiable piece of dead animal towards the vent and the bright suspicious eyes peering out. The eyes only narrow, not budging an inch even when Stakar takes a delicate nip of one corner to prove its edibility. 

Juices drips rust red onto the floor, and Stakar rubs at it futilely with the toe of his boot. From his place against the wall Krugarr curls his tail a little tighter around himself.

Food. So messy. 

Stakar huffs. “Fuck ‘Leta, do we even know if he has a translator chip?” 

Aleta just raises her eyebrows, stretches into a shrug. 

“Thank you dear, very helpful,” Stakar’s voice is dry as desert sand. He edges a little closer to the vent, freezes when the eyes retreat further. If the young one’s this wary, Krugarr’s a little surprised he hasn’t taken off into the ducts, gotten himself good and lost. Maybe he’s just waiting for them do something to better prove their intentions. 

Krugarr could try and pull it from his mind. 

But no. The young one isn’t hurting anything though, except perhaps Stakar’s faith in his own persuasive skills. There’s no need for an assault like that, unprovoked. 

“You picked him up just outside the arena, right?” Charlie says idly, leaning against the wall by Krugarr. The two of them stand together, a good few lengths from where Stakar is trying yet again to coax their newest passenger out with his sad brown hunk of dead flesh. They are, after all, not the most unthreatening in appearance – Charlie with his size and Jovian bulk, Krugarr with his coils. 

“Yup,” Aleta’s fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, clearly only just resisting the urge to fiddle with one of her plethora of knives instead. “Or he picked us. After I took out the target, most of sadistic fucks spectating were airlifted out and the Kree guards killed most of the arena battle slaves that weren’t contained. But this one must’ve played dead, wormed his way out in the chaos.”

She purses her lips in grudging admiration. “Gutsy little thing, sneaking out right under those scum-suckers’ noses. Dunno what he thought he was gonna do next. Probably why he latched onto Stakar like he did when he saw him going for the landing pad.”

“He did _what,”_ Charlie sounds delighted. 

“Like a barnacle to a ship,” Aleta’s grin is as sharp as her teeth. “A survivor.” 

“Yes,” he nods, stares at the vent thoughtfully. 

Stakar has clearly given up on his brilliant plan of proffering food and seems to have decided the best method is to list the various benefits of not spending the night in the vents. 

“Did he just say because there’s _pillows_?” Charlie asks doubtfully. 

“Well,” Aleta rolls her eyes. “There’s a reason, I don’t let him do the negotiations.” 

“That’s what you have me for,” Martinex saunters up cheerfully through the side door. He’s got his holopad in one hand, some kind of miniature speaker in the other. 

It’s certainly true, between the three of them Martinex is by far the most adept at delicate negotiations. Krugarr nods, twists his hands until a miniature Aleta and Stakar appear, the latter gesticulating earnestly at miniature stick man with a gun pointed them until the former boredly throws a tiny knife into the stick man’s throat. 

Charlie guffaws, smirks at Krugrar. “You’re not wrong.” 

Martinex rolls his eyes, trying half-heartedly to keep the grin off his face. He pokes a few buttons on the holopad, taps the speaker until the light glows green. 

“Hey boss,” he strides forward until he can nudges Stakar with his elbow, “Let me try something.” 

Stakar slumps, waves a hand. Clearly, he’s run out of ideas. 

“All yours.” 

As the group watches Martinex expectantly, some vaguely wistful sugar-drop pop starts floating out of the speakers, clean and fizzling and lemony-bright. 

Interesting. Krugarr narrows his eyes. Martinex believes he can coax the young one out with music?

There’s a beat, and then Stakar’s mouth drops open because the eyes edge closer, and closer to the opening, until they can just see the outline of a wiry blue body. 

“Sounds good huh? This is the album where they started to find their feet, spin something really original,” Marty says encouragingly, holds up the speaker. The young one doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t back away either. “It’s the kind of music you can dance to, y’know? Like…” and hesitantly, Marty starts awkwardly bopping in place. 

Next to Krugarr, Charlie stuffs his fist in his face, trying vainly to quiet his laughter. Krugarr turns his head, raises an eloquent eyebrow. 

“Yeah, this is why he won’t go dancing with me, he’s as bad as Stakar.”

Krugarr thinks, then carefully turns enough he use one palm to shield as the other sparks a miniaturized Stakar and Martinex stiffly bopping off-rhythm in a middle of a glittery dance floor. 

“Yes that,” Charlie’s stomach sucks in from trying to stifle his wheezing and he slaps his leg. “Fuckin’ _exactly._ ”

By the time they turn back, the young one is actually out of the vent, staring at Marty in fascination. He still has a collar around his neck, shackles around his wrists, but Stakar won’t let him sleep without cutting them. Breaking him free.

Krugarr has a good feeling, about this one. 

 

 

III.

“Vance is dead.” 

Stakar sits by the body, hasn’t left its side. Krugarr hesitates, rests a hand on his shoulder. He’s getting used to it, the comfortable way they touch each other, pulling each other into hugs, slinging arms around shoulders, sprawling over each other in drunken comfort. 

It doesn’t seem to help. Stakar has his face in his hands, muscles nearly as stiff as the corpse he’s guarding, and this is the only comfort Krugarr can offer him. 

“He didn’t even… how do I _do_ this, Krugarr? There’s no one, his planet’s gone like Charlie’s and he has _no one._ ” 

Except that isn’t exactly true, it it. 

Krugarr concentrates, sends _He had you. He had the Ravagers._

“But we never talked about it, what he wanted if something happened,” Stakar grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t even know the traditions of his people.” 

They’re so young. Krugarr has seen two centuries come and go, two centuries of birth and life and death. They may not see it, may feel worn beneath the weight of all the suffering given heavier than their years should merit. But they still have all the brashness and boldness of their youth, cling unconscious to the belief that they will never die, his new little family. 

_In the end he died a Ravager. We will create new traditions, to honor our own._

“New traditions,” Stakar finally looks up, takes his head out of his hands. “I… yes. We’ll make make new ones. Give him a send off worthy of him. But…”

_Dress his body with the things he loved. Send his ashes to rest among the stars he sailed._

Stakar purses his lips says gruffly, “Fireworks, colors over his grave. He didn’t live quietly. He won’t go quietly.”

_No. And he will not be forgotten._

Krugarr’s mind twinges, exhausted. It takes the energy out of him, talking like this. He’ll need to spend the afternoon under his sunlamp, if he’s to be ready for the funeral later.

“Yondu,” Stakar says suddenly towards the shadowed corner. Krugarr blinks. He hadn’t noticed anyone there, but at Stakar’s silent command Yondu melts into the lights, scowling. 

“Aleta said you needed me,” he folds his arms, shifts from foot to foot. It’s quite doubtful Aleta said anything of the kind, but Stakar doesn’t call him on it. 

“Just in time,” he smiles, pushing himself slowly to his feet. “We need to get Vance ready, to send him on.”

Yondu scowls harder down at his feet. “Send him on where? He’s dead. Dead people don’t go nowhere.”

“They go to the stars,” Stakar steps closer, rests a broad hand on Yondu’s shoulder. “We don’t let them die unnoticed and forgotten, we send them out with celebration and song. Help them be at peace, pass beyond, where souls go to rest.” 

Krugarr’s always admired it, the soul in Stakar. There’s something tender and deeply poetic in him, and he uses it to spin hope where people would believe there isn’t any. He flares brighterthan novas, lights up everyone around him as he burns.

Yondu peers up, like he doesn’t quite believe it. 

“The Kree said there’s only an afterlife for people like them.”

“Well the Kree also believe it’s alright to sell children,” Stakar’s voice is uncompromising. “They’re wrong about a lot.” 

Yondu stares at Stakar now, the way he often does – like he’s a sky full of stars, like Stakar’s hung the sun.

“So we help ‘em pass on? Every Ravager?” 

“Every Ravager,” Stakar nods. “May the stars give us long lives, but yes. Every one.”

 

IV.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” Mainframe stares at Krugarr, thoughtful shimmer in her eyes. Green today, which seems to be her favorite although as Krugarr nods they slowly filter to a melancholy violet. 

It’s time. There’s more he needs to know, more he needs to find. They will always be his family, this brash little tangle of thieves. But he lay awake last night again, curled against the engine under his lamp, listening to the screams of yet another civilization being butchered by the Kree. Their death screams still echo, every time he closes his eyes. 

There’s a man, a sorcerer, who’s promised to teach him to harness his gift, to do more than just witness. 

Krugarr has to try. 

He taps his wristcomm, opens a screen to type. His telepathy has never worked with Mainframe, and his explanation is too long for pictures. 

_There’s a man,_ he writes, _that has promised to teach me magic, promised me a way to find the knowledge I seek. I have been given a gift. I have ignored it for too long._

He shifts his hands, conjures a picture of a small ship, sailing towards a tiny figure with spinning circles at his fingertips, light shining from behind him. 

Offering hope.

Mainframe hums, then says firm as bedrock, “Take me with you.” 

What? 

Krugarr twists a hand, lets a question mark float between them. 

_Why?_

They’ve grown close, the two of them. The only ones with such starkly non-humanoid bodies, the only ones old enough to have lived long lives before Stakar found them. Mainframe understands him, in a ways the others do not. But to leave the rest, to follow him on an uncertain journey into the outer reaches… 

“You’re not the only one with questions they can’t abandon,” Mainframe’s normally chipper voice tilts sober. “And you are my friend. I don’t want you to go alone.”

Of course. Mainframe still didn’t know how she’d ended up abandoned on Neptune. Half her programming had been wiped, leaving her nearly non-functional until the Stakar had picked her up and Martinex had repaired her. 

Maybe they can find their answers together. 

Krugarr reaches out, gently runs a finger along her face. Nods. 

_Yes_ he types _we will tell the others tonight_

 

V. 

“The council calls for vote.”

Stakar looks impossibly, heartbreakingly worn. Like someone’s run a knife along the seams of him, and it’s all he can do not to unravel. 

How could he not? They were family, the original Ravagers, and they’d prepared for death in battle, for their drifting apart as they spread among the stars but this… 

How could they ever have prepared for this. 

Yondu stands, blank-eyed and lifeless, secured and gagged. Genma’s faction had insisted, and Stakar hadn’t fought them. Weapons were to be secured, they’d said, and wasn’t his whistle, his very being, a weapon if he fought the verdict? Aleta had practically come to fisticuffs over it, but she backed down at the threat of being thrown out of proceedings. 

And so they’d all watched. Krugarr’s friend, his _family,_ the man he’d watched grow from snapping, flinching runaway slave into a proud, snarling captain of his own ship. Put into chains by the ones who broke them. 

Who told him he’d never be bound again.

Krugarr hadn’t believed it, when the summons had come. When he’d read that a full council was called, to bring Yondu Udonta on charges of code breaking – of trafficking children to their deaths _._ He could see souls better than most, and nothing he’d ever seen in Yondu’s painted him capable of that kind of greed and callousness. 

But Krugarr’s visions don’t lie. When he brings his magic swirling to life, it doesn’t show absolution. Small hands in a bigger blue one. White light, thick and fragmented, sharper than swords. Swirling colors, disappointment, rage. Tiny bodies, crumbling to the ground, tiny bones, piled in careless heaps. 

There’s something strange about what he sees. Something blocking him from seeing more, but well. Magic is still new to him. Unpredictable. There’s no way to know whether his visions are literal. But their message is clear.

Krugarr aches, aches deep and painful and twisting to see the hope sink dully from Yondu’s eyes. Part of him, deep in the foundations of his soul, will always love the wild-eyed boy from Centauri-IV. But love has never meant innocence, and no one rises beyond the capability for evil. Krugarr has lived too long to believe that. His visions have spoken, and Yondu has admitted to his guilt. 

It’s Krugarr’s turn. 

He casts his vote. 

 

——————————————————————————————

 

But Yondu’s dying scream, it never comes. 

If he had died, Krugarr would have heard it, so when Martinex’s message pings his wristcomm he already knows.

He must tell Mainframe. She hasn’t left the bridge, since the trial. Going to work herself into an involuntary shutdown, that woman.

In a moment. Just a moment more, to try and center. Krugarr curls around himself a little tighter, closes his eyes. Breathes, because he will not have to listen to his one of his small, broken family die today.

He gives himself five minutes. It’s long enough. Mainframe needs to know the news, and Krugarr has a ship to run. It’s been without him long enough.

Krugarr relaxes his coils, pushes upright and towards the door.

Someday still, he knows, he will hear the echo as Yondu dies. Death comes for everyone, and there is no corner of the universe where he will not hear his family cry. 

But he will not hear it today.


End file.
